Her eyes glittered with excitement through the holes of her black half mask. Georgie took one last satisfied glance in the cheval mirror then swept her floor-length domino over her shoulders and descended the stairs to find Mama and Juliet already in the hall, and Pieter, in his coachman’s livery, waiting by the door.
Juliet appeared equally pleased to be going to the Westons’. She’d arranged to meet Pettigrew—who would sneak in without an invitation—and take advantage of the opportunity to dance more than the permitted two dances together. Or to steal a kiss somewhere private.
It took fifteen minutes of queuing just to reach the front steps of the Westons’ mansion, and Georgie smiled in relief. It was a perfect crush; it would be easy to slip away in such a crowd. Hopefully Mother would be too busy trying to keep track of Juliet to notice her eldest daughter had gone missing.
Her heart pounded. She felt deliciously naughty, sneaking off to experience an entirely different side of life. This might be just another work assignment for Wylde—he probably spent half his life unearthing incriminating evidence in exciting places—but for her, it promised a night of unparalleled adventure.
She slipped away from Juliet and Mother in the crowded entrance hall and entered the main ballroom. The heat and press of warm bodies was stifling and the hum of excited chatter almost overwhelmed the orchestra, but her spirits lifted. The whole place buzzed with energy, with people determined to enjoy the night to the fullest.
She’d just started to edge around the side of the room, squeezing herself through the throng, when a highwayman stepped into her path. He was dressed almost entirely in black, from his shining Hessian boots and billowing cloak, to the black fabric mask tied over his eyes and the tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head.
She gasped as he caught her arm and tugged her against his broad chest.
“Evening, wife,” he rumbled.
She’d half expected him to say, “Stand and deliver.”
“How did you know it was me?” She still wore her domino with the hood pulled up over her hair, which concealed her from head to toe.
His lips curved in an enigmatic smile as he lifted her chin with his finger, as if readying her for a kiss. “I’d know you anywhere, Georgie girl. This way.”
Her stomach somersaulted. That was the first time he’d ever called her Georgie. It sounded strangely intimate in his deep masculine voice.
He took her elbow and weaved his way through the crowd, which parted as if by magic in front of him. She couldn’t help but notice how the women’s gazes followed him, drawn by the magnetism of his body, even when they couldn’t see his face. He exuded power and mystery, the promise of danger, an irresistible combination.
Georgie was seized by the ridiculous urge to shout: He’s mine. He’s married to me. She shook her head. He probably had a mistress. Or a whole string of them.
When they had navigated the sea of guests and slipped back outside, Wylde hailed the foremost cab in the semicircular drive and gave the driver an address. His large fingers closed around hers as he helped her up into the carriage. The contact burned, even through her evening gloves.
“Let me do the talking tonight, understand?” he said as he settled on the seat opposite her. She nodded, her stomach churning in trepidation.
It was a short drive to O’Meara’s house. Lights blazed from the windows and the sounds of a raucous party emanated from the open front door. Georgie followed Wylde up the steps, where he handed his cloak, hat, and mask to a waiting footman.
She’d been anticipating this moment all evening. She waited until he glanced back at her, undid the tie at the neck of her domino, and let it slide over her shoulders. She suppressed a smile of pure feminine satisfaction when his mouth dropped open in shock.
“What the devil are you wearing?” he growled.
“Don’t you like it?” She feigned innocence. “Since you said I was to be your ‘lady companion,’ one of possibly dubious morals, I thought I should dress the part.”
It was the most scandalous dress she’d ever owned. She’d never worn it in public—the color and style hardly befitted an unmarried woman—but when she’d seen the rolls of teal silk being unloaded from one of her ships, she’d been unable to resist. She was sick of wearing demure, unflattering pastels. She’d ordered Madame Cerise to make her something extraordinary, and Madame Cerise, a true Frenchwoman, had risen admirably to the challenge. This was the dress of a bold, confident woman, a daring gown to go with a daring adventure.
Wylde looked like he wanted to shove her straight back into the carriage.
Or strangle her.
Or devour her.
Excellent.
His eyes seemed to be fixed on her chest. Or perhaps on the diamond and emerald necklace she’d chosen to match the outfit. The jewels had belonged to a minor European royal until the turbulent years of the revolution had forced them to sell. Georgie always felt like a princess when she wore them, despite the covetous looks she received from the other girls in the ton.
“Holy hell, woman!” he growled. “Do you want to be robbed?”
Fine words from a man dressed as a highwayman. He looked quite capable of stealing her jewels and her virtue. She wouldn’t miss either.
She waved him away. “Nobody will think they’re real, not on a courtesan. They’ll assume they’re paste. Stop worrying.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she congratulated herself on having discomposed him. There was something decidedly satisfying about shaking his usual air of cool confidence.
“Well for God’s sake, keep your mask on,” he grumbled, ushering her up the stairs.
The rooms were crowded with both men and women, all instantly recognizable as belonging to a lower social stratum than Georgie usually encountered. Their laughter was louder, the ladies’ dresses too gaudy. Many of them wore rouge and lip paint.
And yet everyone seemed to be having far more fun than at a society party. The laughter was genuine. The buzz of conversation ebbed and flowed naturally; there was no whispering of malicious gossip or cruel tittering behind fans. The rhythmic slap of cards emanated from one room, along with the general hum of jovial conversation and the chink of glasses.
Wylde caught her wrist and steered her in that direction, weaving in and out of the throng. He stopped at a baize-topped gaming table just as another man rose to vacate his seat.
“Mind if I join you for a hand, gents?”
None of them objected, probably glad to have fresh money in the game. He sat and Georgie positioned herself behind him, hovering unobtrusively at his elbow. As the game got underway, she studied the other players at the table and with a horrified start recognized the player on Wylde’s left as one of her former suitors.
Thank goodness she was wearing a mask.
Sir Stanley Kenilworth had offered for her the year she’d come out. He had seemed genuinely surprised when she’d declined the privilege of settling his numerous debts in exchange for him “overlooking her city roots.”
He’d grown even fatter since then. His bloodshot eyes indicated a dedication to drinking, and his slack mouth and red jowls made her thankful she hadn’t accepted his suit. This would have been her money that he was drinking and gambling away.
She stifled a squeal of indignation when he leaned back and casually pinched her bottom.
“Who’s this little beauty, Wylde?” he slurred. “Lucky dog. You always do find the prettiest wenches.”
The old coot didn’t know who she was. His lecherous eyes ran over her, and Georgie dodged his hand and edged closer to Wylde. The dress was having the desired effect, but on the wrong man. She didn’t know whether to be insulted, alarmed, or perversely flattered.
Wylde smiled easily and dealt the cards with practiced skill. “Keep your hands off, Kenilworth. I don’t share.”
His tone was pleasant enough, but there was an underlying thread of steel the other man didn’t miss. Sir Stanley raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “No offense, old man. Just saying, she’s a pretty bit o’ muslin.”
Wylde’s lips twitched. “She is. But trust me, you can’t afford her.”
Another man at the table laughed. “Well, I certainly can’t. You’ve cost me a pretty penny this month, Wylde. I lost a pony when you bested Millington in that horse race to Brighton. I bet you’d never make it in under three hours.”
Wylde shrugged. “What can I say? I ride as well as I shoot.”
Georgie raised her brows. So that was how he augmented his meagre earnings from Bow Street; he took part in games of skill. The man was a scandalous disgrace, permanently without funds, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. She envied his assurance, that mantle of confidence honed by generations of aristocratic forebears.
Genteel poverty like his was quite commonplace amongst the ton. The entire monetary system ran on promises and debts, unpaid bills and gambling IOUs. She’d bet everyone in this room owed something to someone. Except for her.
She accepted a glass of wine and took the opportunity to study the rest of the room as Wylde played. She identified their host, O’Meara, moving smoothly between his guests. He seemed genial enough, with dark curly hair styled à la Brutus and rather hooded eyes. When he reached their table, he greeted the men and paid her scant attention; his gaze slid over her and dismissed her as mere ornamentation. Good.
To emphasize her role as Wylde’s consort, she casually rested her hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed under her fingertips, but after the slightest pause, he turned back to the small pile of winnings in front of him and threw down a card. Seized by a wicked impulse, Georgie trailed her fingers up toward his neck and toyed with the lock of hair that curled behind his ear.
He half turned his head as if to say something to her, then apparently decided against it.
She glanced at his cards over his shoulder and bit back a frustrated groan. Why had he discarded that queen? Really, he was making the oddest decisions. With her head for numbers, she’d always found calculating the odds of cards relatively easy, but she doubted Wylde would appreciate her interference in this instance.
Her fingers stroked the thick hair at his nape, just above his cravat, and her heart pounded at the illicit thrill of it. Wylde cleared his throat, repositioned himself in his chair, and threw down a ten, ruining any chance he might have had of winning the hand.
Georgie stifled a giggle. Was she distracting him? The idea was delightful.
The hand finished, and he stood and gathered his paltry winnings. “Excuse me, gents, but I’ve ignored my lady long enough. I do believe she’d appreciate a tour of the house.”
This was met with knowing ribald laughter. “Oh, aye. I hear the doctor’s billiard table’s very sturdy,” Kenilworth snickered. “Well worth a detour.”
Georgie flushed beneath her mask. They all thought Wylde was taking her off somewhere for … nefarious purposes.
If only.
She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his ridiculous offer to introduce her to physical pleasure. The idea had taken root, a wicked, intriguing possibility. Had he been serious? What would he have done if she’d actually taken him up on it?
His cheek brushed hers as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “They’ll be imagining us in flagrante delicto in less than five minutes. Come on.” He looked at her and away, leaving an instant’s burn in his wake. As he ushered her out of the room, Georgie tried to banish the hot, sinful images he’d conjured.
They dodged another couple sneaking upstairs and a servant carrying a swaying tray of glasses. Wylde sent her a casual, intimate smile over his shoulder that perfectly communicated his delight in the unholy thrill of risk-taking. His eyes were glowing with excitement. Georgie’s matching sense of elation left her almost breathless.
This was what made this man so dangerously attractive. When he called on someone to join him on an adventure, he was well-nigh irresistible.